"Pass it on," piped the bats.
"Wake up! wake up!" crowed the Cock, and he flew up on to the plank; his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but yet he crowed. "Three hens have died of a broken heart. They have plucked out all their feathers. That's a terrible story. I won't keep it to myself; pass it on."
"Pass it on!" piped the Bats; and the fowls clucked and the cocks crowed, "Pass it on! Pass it on!" And so the story traveled from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last came back to the place from which it had gone forth.
"Five fowls," it was told, "have plucked out all their feathers to show which of them had become thinnest out of love to the cock; and then they have pecked each other, and fallen down dead, to the shame and disgrace of their families, and to the great loss of their master."
And the Hen who had lost the little loose feather, of course did not know her own story again; and as she was a very respectable Hen, she said,—
"I despise those hens; but there are many of that sort. One ought not to hush up such a thing, and I shall do what I can that the story may get into the papers, and then it will be spread over all the country, and that will serve those hens right, and their families too."
It was put into the newspaper; it was printed; and it's quite true—that one little feather may easily become five hens.